


The Shirt's Tale

by thememoriesfire



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Crack, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to The Story of Oink, in which Naomi really loves her pig shirt. A lot. Mostly crack (but crack with, like, heart).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shirt's Tale

Getting the shirt out of the room wasn't so difficult, because Naomi responded to cunnilingus like a child to a pacifier—impossible to wake up, almost. Emily had gotten relatively adept at slipping out in the middle of the night for a wee, and Naomi hadn't let her take the shirt off, so. Same as always; except this time, tip-toeing down the stairs, past Naomi's mum's bedroom, and wondering if there were matches or a safety lighter to be found anywhere in this hippie commune.

Also: where, exactly, did one burn a shirt in the middle of summer, in a house that doesn't even _have a fireplace_?

She passed a mirror in the hallway and for a second, it was like Oi—the pig looked slightly frightened, which was of course ridiculous, because _shirts don't look frightened_.

Emily scowled and flipped herself off, and then moved on to the kitchen; if there were matches anywhere, they were likely to be near the stove, after all.

She found some in a drawer that might've been some sort of lost and found for the random scatterings the indigents that passed through Naomi's house left behind. Gingerly picking through the odd assortment of _things_ , Emily saw: a breast pump; two pamphlets that weird Jesus-lookalike had printed in which he, naturally, proclaimed himself messiah; Soothers; an ice pick; an ancient prescription for what looked like birth control; a disposable camera; and a crinkled—though recent—photo of an aggrieved-looking Naomi and her smiling mother. Emily didn't have to study the image long to notice Naomi was wearing...the shirt.

 _Fuck's sake._ Emily rolled her eyes. _Oink_.

She wanted to steal the photograph, but she palmed the matches instead and looked around the kitchen until she found a bottle of barely-used cooking sherry. It'd serve well enough as an accelerant.

Items in hand, she suddenly had no clue what to do next. For one thing, she was _wearing_ the bloody thing, so unless she wanted to go half-naked once she'd done the deed, she'd need something to wear...

It was then, pondering how to go about destroying Oink, that Emily really paused. She thought of how much Naomi seemed to love the shirt—and, okay, it was fucking unnatural, really, but she _loved_ it. Him. Whatever. Much as she hated the thing, much as its very existence _confused her_ , Emily didn't think she could do something like that—she didn't want to see Naomi hurt, not ever.

It just couldn't work, setting the shirt on fire; not without losing Naomi. She was going to have to beat Oink some other way, and right when she was starting to think that maybe she might need Katie's help with this—who probably burned her boyfriends' clothing all the time, and probably had some alternative suggestions when burning is not an option—an idea struck her.

She ambled back over the drawer of collected whatever, gingerly moved the breast pump aside, put the matches back in, and picked up the disposable camera with a sigh.

She wasn't 100% sure that cooking sherry could be generally consumed, but if she was going to be the _best girlfriend ever_ , well. The alternative would be going back upstairs into Naomi's closet (insert joke here, Emily thought with a chuckle) and dipping into her endless supply of vodka, but she and Oink were going to have to reach some sort of understanding about who was boss, here, and risking Naomi waking up before that happened was not an option.

Now or never, Emily thought, and picked up a kitchen chair, bottle of sherry tucked under one arm, camera under the other. Once back in the hallway, she nervously looked up the stairs, but since Naomi's mum hadn't once said anything about how _loud_ their sex was, apparently all the Campbells slept like the dead.

She put the chair down, stared at Oink in the mirror and sighed deeply. Once sat down, she unscrewed the bottle of sherry and took one sip before grimacing, because—worse than JJ's dad's potato whatever the fuck, God, _truly minging_ —but it's all she had, so she steeled herself, drank a few more swallows, and then grandly put the bottle down.

"So," she said, to Oink—or well, to herself, because she wasn't the one with an intimate friendship with a t-shirt. "Let's see which one of us she likes better after this."

There were fifteen pictures left; more than enough.

She straddled the chair and let out a deep breath. Her cheeks were flushed, she saw, which honestly wasn't surprising considering this wasn't the sort of thing she did every day. Or, like, ever. Briefly, she wondered if Katie had ever taken sexy photographs for a boyfriend, then very quickly dismissed the thought because a) there was little Katie _hadn't_ done, probably, and b) Emily _really, really_ didn't want to know.

So she sat there for a bit, camera held aloft, imagining what Naomi would want to see. She struck exactly one pose and promptly burst into laughter, covering her mouth with her free hand in an attempt to stifle the noise. Christ, she really wasn't cut out for this. Two, three more swigs of sherry later only produced a mild sickness and the returning notion that this wasn't as fantastic an idea as it had first seemed. Emily pursed her lips, squared her shoulders and said, to herself _not the pig_ , "Right, well, where would I even develop these?" She rolled her eyes and added, "This doesn't mean you win, you know? God, you're so ridiculous. Wanker. Oink. _Oinkkkkkk._ "

Someone cleared their throat and Emily nearly fell out of the chair.

" _What_ are you doing?"

She almost dropped the bottle of sherry, but instead just fumbled the camera until it dropped between her legs, which obviously didn't make any of this any better, _at all_ , and really, though she was grateful for having learned good manners _somewhere_ , there wasn't really any Godly way to get out of this intact. Not that she wouldn't try.

"Oh Christ, I just, err—" was her best effort.

Naomi's mum raised an eyebrow and folded her arms together. "Love, after what I just caught you doing, I think you can call me Gina."

"This really, _really_ isn't what it looks like," Emily tried, wondering if her head could actually literally explode from embarrassment.

"That's probably for the best," Naomi's mum— _Gina_ retorted mildly, "because it looks like you're drinking cooking sherry while trying to take what I am assuming are meant to be erotic pictures of yourself for my daughter. Or did you just misplace your skirt somewhere?"

Emily felt her mouth fall open, but other than a horrified squeak nothing else came out.

"Also—oh, _God_ , are you wearing _that shirt_?" Naomi's mum— _Gina_ —said, and then rolled her eyes spectacularly, in a way that made Emily briefly wonder (in a distant part of her brain that wasn't just _dying all over the place_ ) if maybe it was a genetic trait. "Right, well, if I have to deal with another fucking _Oink_ situation, I'm going to need a real drink—not _that_."

Emily blinked a few times, and then mutely handed over the sherry.

"Thanks much," Gina said, and then patted Emily on the head. "Take that chair back to the kitchen, will you? Then we can discuss my daughter's somewhat unusual choice in best friends."

 _Best friend?_ There wasn't much Emily could think of to say—and probably the less she said the better, all things considered—so she did as she was told and sat across from Gina at the kitchen table, crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap as primly as possible, trying not to think that she was in her underwear, sitting across from _Naomi's mum_ because she'd been caught... Fucking hell, it was all that sodding shirt's fault. And, _really? Best friend?_

Gina poured herself some brandy, gazing at Emily with what seemed like amusement in her eyes. "Care for a bit? Just to cleanse your palate, as it were."

"Oh, yes. Yes, please." Emily was probably nodding a bit too enthusiastically, but bloody hell, yes, _alcohol._ Anything, _anything_ , to dull the monumental embarrassment she was feeling.

"Do you know," Gina said, once she'd passed a glass half-full of brandy to Emily, "that shirt, that monstrosity, was actually mine?"

Emily took a long drink. "Oh, um, really?"

"Mm. It was a joke gift from a vegan friend of mine. We helped run a co-op together. That shirt is probably ten years old now. I'm amazed at its...longevity. 'Course I never wore it."

"It's because she doesn't wash it," Emily said without thinking.

"Christ, did she actually admit that?"

"Well, it was one of the rules, wasn't it?" Shit. It wasn't that she'd said anything particularly mortifying, so much as the images and sensations that accompanied _the rules_ and which were inextricably linked with the phrase "no denim, no fucking, no washing, no _telling_." Emily closed her eyes for a second and bit back a whimper before swallowing a good deal of her drink in one go. "I just mean," she stammered, her face growing hot, "the rules for sharing him. It. The shirt. Um. Naomi offered. And, there are rules, you know."

Gina laughed. "Well, _of course_ there are." Then her gaze turned curious and she smiled almost affectionately at Emily. "She must love you very much indeed."

Emily tried to cover up her blush with another sip of brandy, but just ended up choking on it, to Gina's obvious amusement.

"Sorry," Gina said, and shrugged. "I didn't mean to embarrass you, it's just nice—she's such a loner, that one. It's always been just her and—"

"Don't tell me—Oink, right?" Emily supplied, and sighed deeply. "Didn't you—I mean, this place was like a commune, she must have had _friends_ or something."

"A commune?" Gina chortled and rolled her eyes again. "Oh, that girl. We didn't always have boarders, you know. I brought them in primarily so that she would stop isolating herself, but she just... hm."

Emily put the brandy down on the table and folded her hands together, nodded. "Genuinely doesn't like people."

Gina tipped her drink in agreement and then smiled. "So really, you are quite special."

"I'm not sure if I like being this special if it means having to compete with ... well, a t-shirt," Emily said, haltingly, and then shrugged helplessly with a laugh. "I love how I'm trying to be _delicate_ about this, like, we obviously agree it's insane. And I would have set it on fire had—"

"You _what_?" Gina interrupted sharply, and put her glass down with some force. "Don't _ever_ say anything like that again. I trust you with her heart—obviously, note how I am not lecturing you about my non-existent firearms and her precious virginity—but you _cannot_ take that shirt from her."

Emily sat back in the chair, startled at the vehemence directed at her. "Oh."

"We ... tried that once," Gina said, with a cringe and a faraway look in her eyes, before refocusing with a slightly panicked look. "It didn't take."

"Oh," Emily repeated, and then sighed deeply. "So—"

"I hope," Gina suggested gently, before running a hand through her hair, "that spending enough time with, say, someone she likes, who may or may not bring her some, say, distraction in the form of pleasure—and don't look that way, I was seventeen once—well, I just think that spending time with you will maybe... resolve this issue. For us."

Emily ignored her own red face and decided to think about how she was just _instructed_ to fuck by her girlfriend's mother _later_ ; instead, just said, "And until then?"

Gina leaned forward and poked Emily in the solar plexus with a devious smile. "Meet your new best friend."

She didn't bother being quiet on her way back up the stairs. She crossed her arms _over the pig's face_ and muttered a few choice expletives about farm animals on shirts and the people who loved them... and the people who loved _those people._ It was all just so tragic.

When she opened the door rather noisily—and maybe she fumbled with the door handle on purpose—Naomi opened her eyes. "You were gone a long time," she murmured.

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. "Yeah, went to the loo."

Naomi nodded sleepily and patted the bed. "You alright?"

A surge of jealousy prompted Emily to ask, "Are you asking the pig? Yes, the pig's just fine, Naomi. I'm fine, too, thanks."

"What?"

Emily sighed and dropped onto the bed. "Nothing," she replied. Then, because why the fuck not, she shifted, turned and straddled Naomi's thighs. In one motion—before Naomi could stop her—she took off the shirt, folding it neatly before setting it on the nightstand. "There."

Naomi let out a strangled sound, and Emily chose to believe it was prompted by the sight of her tits and _not_ because the shirt was gone.

"Why—" Naomi started and almost looked like she was going to cry, so Emily did what any sensible person would do: she leaned over and kissed her, hard and deep, swallowing Naomi's words and her surprise and confusion until she could feel her kiss back earnestly—like they used to kiss, before Oink got between them.

Finally, when Naomi's hands were sliding up her back and she was no longer trying to crane her head towards the nightstand, Emily sat up again.

"I'm prettier," she said, trying not to glare at Naomi. "Say it."

"Prettier than—Em, what—"

" _Say it_. I am _prettier_ than _him_ ," Emily said, and jabbed a finger in the direction of the shirt.

Naomi blinked, twice, and then burst out laughing. "Ems, he's—he's a _pig_."

Emily wondered how this had gotten to a point where _she_ was now being treated like the crazy one, but—whatever. "Yes. And you like him. A _lot_. I need to know you like me more."

Naomi looked up at her questioningly for a moment, and then her face softened. "It's—"

"Just a shirt?" Emily supplied, hopefully.

Naomi flinched. "No, I was going to say, it's not like I want to _sleep_ with the pig..."

"Oh," Emily said, deflated. She made a move to get off Naomi and lie back down, but Naomi stopped her, wrapped arms around her waist and held her put.

"Hey, not so fast—you were starting something, right?"

Emily smiled almost despite herself. "Well, ... kind of, I may have gotten some ins—I mean, yes."

"One second," Naomi said, leaning up for a quick kiss, and then twisting until she could reach for the t-shirt. Emily was about to voice her protest when Naomi slid open her nightstand drawer and slid Oink inside.

She resisted the urge to say, "well done", but only barely, when Naomi turned back to her and said, with a shy smile, "He's a bit delicate, and shouldn't see what I'm about to do to you, really."

—

"You're...quite...good at that," Emily said, and if she was panting, it was Naomi's fault entirely.

"Am I?" Emily could almost feel Naomi's mouth curve into a smile; her cheek was pressed against Emily's stomach. They were both sweating and Emily was still, unbelievably, breathless.

Later, before Naomi could fall asleep again, Emily said, "Tell me about Oink."

Naomi leaned back enough to gaze warily at Emily—and it hurt, that Naomi was still gauging her intentions. "Like what?"

Emily shrugged. "Anything. Just, like, why do you like...him...so much?"

She seemed to ponder it for a bit, Naomi, then shook her head and murmured, "I dunno. I've had him so long... Besides my mum he's just...been here. And, Christ I'm going to sound like a total twat for saying this, but when I put him on and see his piggy face in the mirror or wherever? It brightens my day, and I don't take myself so fucking seriously."

Emily smiled. "That ... that's all incredibly normal."

Naomi looked up with a furrowed forehead and rolled her eyes. "... yeah? What, were you expecting me to confess that I am secretly turned on by livestock?"

Emily laughed and bit her lip, readying herself to lie effectively for the 18th time in one day. "No, of course not."

"Because that would be crazy."

"Yeah, totally," Emily agreed, and considered whether or not she had the energy to fuck—lovemake, whatever—a third time. Instead, she scratched at Naomi's skull, until Naomi curled into her body and released a pleasurable sigh.

"Good day, this."

"Mmm," Emily agreed, because against all odds, it kind of had been one.

"Real nap now?"

"Sure," Emily agreed, with a yawn, and though her fingers were still absently running up and down Naomi's back, nap sounded about right; she really didn't think she could go again.

"Hmm. Sleep well, babe," Naomi muttered, kissing Emily's shoulder before rolling over onto her own pillow.

"Sleep well," Emily said, and turned to look at the nightstand almost affectionately. "You too, Oink."


End file.
